


No Control

by Cuppangstea



Category: One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Cutting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3560192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppangstea/pseuds/Cuppangstea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivey Suzanne has never been loved; she's never so much as held a boy's hand before - and even though it may not be the right way of thinking, she believes this to be pathetic... especially considering the fact that she's already "twenty freaking years old".<br/>So what happens when an overpowering sense of loneliness and other such negative emotions get the best of Ivey one evening? She finds herself sitting behind closed doors, on the edge of the toilet seat with razor in hand, ready to make a decision that she can only come to regret...<br/>...that is, until her seemingly 'perfect' friend Harry Styles steps through her bedroom door, and turns everything upside down. For better or worse, who can say?<br/>What is certain, however, is that both Ivey and Harry will find that scars are a far more common phenomena than they originally believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Control

The slide and burn of a blade against flesh – too many have given into this temptation; the desire to feel, and to get lost in feeling – in the sick and stinging relief of pain, yes, but a feeling and a distraction nonetheless.

I'd seen the pictures before; wrists dyed red and dripping with life spilled by the owners' own hands. They were just tiny cuts – some deeper than others. Some on the border between keeping life and allowing it to slip away in streams of red on the bathroom tile – still, most of them were tiny. Miniscule, barely even noticeable with the aid of a long sleeved shirt or some strategically layered bracelets.

I stared at the plastic remnants of my razor; it hadn't taken much to tear it apart, and to harvest one of the tiny little blades inside. I passed the cold piece of metal between my hands, pinching it with my fingers and examining the unforgiving, slim edge - the blade that holds the power to separate the atoms of flesh and bone, of veins and blood...

...that even has the ability to release a soul from it's cage of a body.

It's been half an hour at least; thirty minutes of sitting on the lid of my toilet, the bathroom door bolted shut, a tear or two streaming down my face here and there.

_When would they stop falling?_

“Never”, I whispered bitterly to myself. I was throwing a pity party; sure, it was pathetic – my friends and family would have told me so, given the chance.

But I wouldn't give them that chance. Not this time.

No one could comfort me anymore.

What can I say? I had simply given up.

I'd often thought of myself as a sorry excuse for a woman – as a weak human being with no talent and nothing to offer the world – and time and time again, I had managed to somehow stifle the bitter emotions that never failed to well up within me. Those feelings of self loathing, jealousy, unhappiness, and what have you all riled up and broiling within my gut until I nearly felt the urge to explode.

Now, to the point.

Some might say it was a horrible reason for being depressed, but it had managed to leave me crippled and crumpled regardless.

You see, all of my friends seemed to be getting involved in relationships – one day my closest companions would be single, only to be seemingly spirited away from me in the arms of a cute boy the next moment. That left me alone.

Time and time again I was left alone. And I simply couldn't take it anymore.

Why is it always so hard for everyone to understand? Why did it always seem impossible for people to get exactly what I was going through – the pain that my heart was subjected to on a daily basis? I craved mental and physical contact alike; a lover's touch and caress, as well as the ability to connect with someone of the opposite gender in a spiritual way that transcends physical desires.

But it never happened.

_It never freaking happened._

_Haven't I realized by now? I NEVER get what I want. Not when it comes to this. Not when it matters the most._

I was twenty freaking years old; why was it that I couldn't manage to snag at least one boyfriend by now? A temporary one at the very least – a fling that lasted a week and then ended, but was enough to fuel my confidence and push me into the realm of un-singleness; of believing that I was at least _somewhat_ desireable? Why hadn't I had one of those? All of my other friends had – acquaintances and lifelong friends alike. They'd all had the privilege of feeling the butterflies pool in their stomachs during the heated and uncertain moment of a first kiss; they'd all held a hand within their own trembling one, intertwining shaky fingers into a jumbled up display of affection at their sides.

Me? I hadn't felt any of that.

I was so inexperienced – I craved the experience, sure, but no matter the amount of effort I put into receiving it, I never actually _got_ it. And I _hated_ myself for it.

For the love of Pete – I hadn't even managed to have _friends_ of the opposite gender until recently. It was all fun and games and perfect to have only friends that were girls – until I woke up during those lonely nights I had almost come to expect – those I believed I deserved - when I was cold and longing for the tender touch of a man by my side; when I craved someone to be there and comfort me when the nonexistent terrors of the night jolted me awake, screaming, instead of staring at the ceiling in a shaky stupor for hours until I finally managed to drift off into a fitful slumber once again.

Where was my prince charming? My other half? Everyone else had found theirs; and little, pathetic me had no one. Not even a friend of the opposite gender. How stupid.

Well, there's Harry; but he doesn't count. He's too perfect for me anyways. I'd seen where pining after boys could get me – to that deep pit of despair that leaves me reeling, and believing that I amount to absolutely nothing, despite the assurances of everyone around me.

No way. Harry is all green eyes, dreamy hair and raspy Cheshire accent – a voice that melts my bones and pricks my heart. Harry is endearingly clumsy, a cheeky dimpled grin, and filled to the brim with talent. Harry is a beautiful singing voice and perfect apparel – long limbs and a heart of gold.

Harry Styles.

No, I could never be with him. He's just like all the others – the object of my undying affections and my utter secret obsession for a while; that is, until they found out about my feelings for them and slipped between my fingers like water. They didn't want to be with me; none of them. Who would want to be? Who could blame them for wanting to stay away from a freak like me?

But Harry – he makes my heart throb in a way that doesn't seem healthy; every time he walks into a room that I'm in, my heart stops beating and the breath is stolen from my lungs. One glance into his deep, green eyes is enough to send me reeling – to make me stupid and incompetent, unable to form complete sentences in his presence.

And these very feelings are what led me here; to my tiled bathroom, a blade in my hand and a dangerous mental state to go with it.

I was supposed to have been hanging out with Harry today – going to see a particularly interesting action movie that had just come out in the cinema; but last night, he had canceled saying that something important had suddenly come up – but not to worry, he would make it up to me sometime soon.

Sometime soon? What a pathetic excuse.

I'd heard it all before – he didn't care about me. Just like all the others before him. I had never gotten close to having a boyfriend before – what in the world was different in this case? He was trying to run away from me. I was annoying and a nuisance to someone as perfect as Harry. I was holding him back. I was stupid.

SO STUPID.

Why did I even get my hopes up?

That's it – I was finally going to do it. At long last, I determined withinin every fiber of being that I was going to go through with this deed.

My hands shook as I finally held the blade an inch from the soft skin of My upper arm. I didn't want to risk cutting my wrists – those were too fragile, and knowing my clumsy stupid self I would mess up and kill myself on the first try; I would end up in a puddle of my own blood on the cold bathroom tile, having accidentally ended my life when all I really wanted was a bit of temporary relief; a small scratch or two in order to physically cope with the mental and emotional turmoil that was eating away at every fiber of my being.

I wanted this to leave a scar – to sting; I wanted to punish myself for being such a failure, and to give into sorrow in a way that I hadn't before.

I was trembling as I placed the blade against my flesh, hissing slightly at the contact of the cool metal. I was really going to do this. And it scared me.

But I couldn't find it within myself to care.

Hesitantly, without applying too much pressure, I slid the blade across my skin for the first time.

I was shocked at how much it stung – like a paper cut, only longer. The pain had more of a bite to it than receiving an accidental and unexpected cut; this one was intentional.

I hated and loved the feeling at the same time, if such a feeling is possible – I knew I deserved this. I amounted to nothing, and nothing is exactly what I would treat myself as.

I picked up the blade and tentatively made three other small cuts next to the first one; they still hurt, and I still couldn't find it within myself to care. They were bleeding – I had actually done it. There were little thin rivers of red running down my injured arm at this point; not a dangerous amount by any means, but just enough to let me know that I had done my job correctly.

That's when the thought struck me. What would it feel like to experiment with this newly found method of release on my wrists? Where it really mattered? Over an artery that had the capacity to either keep me together, or drain the life from my tormented body?

“ _Try it.”_ something foreign and evil whispered within me.

And I would.

...and that's when the doorbell rang.

I was upstairs in my room, while my mom was downstairs in the kitchen cooking up God knows what for dinner – and sure enough, the soft echoes of her footsteps could be heard wandering towards the source of the noise.

She would get the door – I, on the other hand, still had unfinished business to attend to.

Without nearly as much hesitation as the first time, I picked up the blade and meandered it effortlessly towards my wrist. It felt so wrong, yet so right... _I was in control_.

I was in control of the situation. _For once in my life, I was freaking in control of my emotions_. I was the dealer of pain – I chose when to hurt myself, what amount of sting I deserved, and when to put an end to the torment.

_So unlike life and so sickeningly sweet._

With these thoughts twisting and jumbling around in my mind, like a giant serpent that slid through my train of thought and kept me from thinking straight....

I slid the blade.

Inexperienced hands applied a little too much pressure – they pressed down a little too hard.

“ _Shit”_ I hissed under my breath, seeing a fountain of red erupt from my veins much too quickly. Small drops were already accumulating on the tender flesh, falling to the ground and splashing on the tile below. The wound wasn't life threatening – far from it more than likely, but it was scary. So scary – and it stung.

_God, it stung._

Would I need stitches? Did I need to go to the hospital? Jesus, I didn't know anything about this whole self-harm thing... What was I supposed to do?

_No. If I went to the hospital, then my family would know. They would see what I'd done to myself. They would worry about me and think that I was insane. I couldn't let them see – not this. I absolutely could NOT let them see the mess I had become. Their ignorance was my bliss – and there was no way I'd let them into this part of my life._

Not when I finally felt like I had control. For once.

A knock on the bedroom door.

“Ivey?” I heard a raspy voice call out...

...a raspy voice with a Cheshire accent; a voice that belonged to a face with catlike green eyes and a dimpled grin.

“ _ **FUCK.”**_ I thought desperately, scrambling to my feet in an attempt to somehow clean up this mess before my unannounced - and most certainly unexpected - visitor found me in this predicament.

This was far worse than my parents finding out -

Harry Styles had been the knock on my front door – and was now the voice waiting outside my bathroom.

The Bathroom with newly shed droplets of red staining the tile in uneven splotches, and an emotionally wrecked woman on the toilet seat.

“Ivey?” Harry repeated.“Are you in there? Can I come in?”

“Um... Uh...” I stammered weakly with shaking syllables and bated breath.

“...Is now a good time?”

“Uhhhh -"

_Oh, God... what do I do now?,_ I thought despairingly.

I'd really dug my own grave this time; as it seems, I wasn't as in control of the situation as I'd originally imagined.

 


	2. And So It Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Harry may or may not find out exactly what Ivey's been up to the last few minutes... Dun dun dunnnnn.

I was frozen to the spot. The door was locked; no one could get in unless I let them – or unless they broke in by brute force.

And Harry was probably capable of doing just that.

So I had to be quick.

“Hey, I just wanted to swing by and see if you maybe wanted to hang out for a little while?”

Despite the persistent pain burning throughout the entirety of my left arm, the deep and melodic tone of Harry's voice was enough to distract me, sending shivers up my spine. I was so hopeless sometimes.

“If it's a bad time, I can always come back later – I didn't know if you were busy or not. Your mum just let me in and told me that you were upstairs and to come find you.” He let out a little chuckle that bubbled from deep within his chest. I could practically hear the dimples popping on both of his cheeks.

“Well, you found me!” I answered, voice quivering and coming out a little too ecstatic to be believable.

_God, what kind of answer was that?_ I chastised myself internally.

“Hm, yeah I guess I did,” He answered back. “I mean, there weren't very many places to look... I figured 'her room – yeah, that's probably where she'd be' – unless you were hiding in a random closet or something weird like that... but then I'd have to question your sanity.” he let out another little laugh at that.

_You have absolutely no idea how much my sanity should be questioned right about now_ , I thought.

I was scrambling around the bathroom at this point, tiptoeing on socks with foxes knitted into the fabric, attempting to be quiet when I knew it was futile. I could hear Harry making his way into my room, coming to rest right outside the door to my bathroom. Shit.

“Oh, hey! Sorry, I didn't know you were in the loo!” another chuckle. “You should'a told me!”

“Yeah, sorry about that! I, uh... I might be a while, but you can sit on my bed or on a chair or... er.. something. Just make yourself comfortable!”

“TMI, Ivey. TMI! I don't need to know about your gastrointestinal functions!” he sarcastically yelled in the direction of my bathroom; I heard the creaky side of my mattress give way under his weight as he more than likely sat down on my bed.

**Harry Styles was on my bed.**

_Dear Lord... I sound just like a pre-programmed host robot or something, if that even exists – treat him like a normal human being for Pete's sake! Harry freaking Styles is in your bedroom; the last thing you need is to make him think you're more of a weirdo than he probably already thinks you are. Just breathe and clear your mind... think..._

...but that's just it. I couldn't. This was a normal occurrence in his presence. Harry made me stupid. He took my thoughts and mushed them around, until all my mind could focus on were green eyes and perfect lips and deep chuckles belonging to a perfect human being. He was my kryptonite, if ever I had one.

The sight of more droplets of blood streaming to the floor was enough to recapture my attentions, and bring them back to the task at hand.

“Yeah, um, that thing that came up? It ended a lot sooner than I had imagined. I haven't told anyone this yet, but....” he stopped and took a deep breath, working himself up for whatever it was he was about to say. “...I signed up for X-Factor! They called me in for my audition – which just so happened to be today... you'd think they'd have given me a little more prior notice than telling me last night – but anyways... dude, I still can't freaking believe it... I passed. I'm going on to the next round!”

_Wow, Harry made it onto the X-Factor. I_ thought to myself, thoroughly impressed. _Makes sense; he's perfect in every sense of the word, after all. Lord knows that boy can sing; if anyone deserves to make it big time, it's Harry Styles._

“Seriously? That's amazing! Congratulations Harry!” I was genuinely happy for him, and was happy to hear that my voice managed to sound convincing in it's joy, despite the scrambling of my hands in an attempt to wipe the droplets of blood off the floor and the frantic pounding of my panicked heart.

“Thanks”, he said; quietly, almost sheepishly. I could almost hear his hand reaching around to his back, rubbing his neck in a cutely embarrassed type of way. “I figured if I could trust anyone with the news, it'd be you. I knew you'd be happy for me.”

I could feel the blood rushing unbidden to your cheeks, turning them tomato red. He knew I would support him? And it sounded like he was grateful for it... Harry was grateful to someone as pathetic as me? That was a first.

“Definitely! That's seriously awesome, Harry!” I scrambled for something else to say so that he wouldn't get suspicious of what exactly I was doing in the bathroom at the moment. I grabbed for the handle to the medicine cabinet over the toilet, hastily making use of some gauze and bandaids, not knowing exactly what to do with them. I end up not using them at all, and just turn on the faucet. I rinse off the wound on my wrist with water, and dab at the ones I can't quite reach further up my arm. The bleeding has stemmed a little bit on the larger wrist wound, only a bubble or two of red appearing now and then. Figuring that's as good as things are going to get at the moment and ignoring the searing pain from what's probably going to be an infection later, I throw the dirty, bloodstained toilet paper in the toilet, flush, and roll down my long sleeves to cover the damage. I silently pray that the red won't seep through and become visible to the outside world – that my struggle will remain hidden on my arm and wrist, and that no one else – Harry, specifically – will be brought to light about my newly found practice of self harm.

“Heh, it's not too big of a deal..” I hear Harry continue. “I was so freaking nervous though – you should've seen me shaking like a leaf. How do they expect you to be calm though? I mean seriously, with Simon Cowell staring into your soul while you sing?”

“That sounds nerve wracking” I say, understanding where he's coming from. “but I bet you did great anyways! I mean you made it, right? That takes some talent!”, and I sincerely mean it.

“Thanks...” he's grateful, and by the sounds of things doesn't have as much confidence in himself as I originally believed – his rocky voice is two octaves lower than normal, a twinge of embarrassment still noticeable in the tone, and I can swear that I hear the boy blushing. “Now hurry your butt up and get out of that bathroom! We have important hanging-out-things to do, your gastrointestinal issues can wait!” he chuckles, and I hear him stand up and begin pacing towards where I'm behind the locked bathroom door. Seems like he heard the toilet flush and thinks I'm finished with 'my business'... well duh, who wouldn't hear it? But I'm not ready to see him just yet, still attempting to get myself together and appear composed – to not look as though I've just cut my own skin and spilled my own blood for the first time.

I reach for the knob and pull open the bathroom door, taking in the sight of beautiful Harry Styles, right in front of me.

“How are you today, Ivey?” he drawls out in his soul melting Cheshire accent, that cheeky grin I love so much popping out and damn near dazzling me.

“Just dandy. How are you Harry Edward Styles?” I counter.

“Peachy.” his smile gets even bigger, but I don't see how that's possible. So much smug happiness radiates off this boy that it's almost blinding. “Now, what do you want to do? Still up for the cinema, or does something else sound better?”

_Was this really happening? Did Harry Styles actually want to hang out with me, despite all the unnecessary awkwardity I surely bring into his life? Maybe things were taking a turn for the better after all...._

“Hmmm... Cinema. Definitely. We need to see that movie! You and your sudden X-Factor audition dilemma had me thinking I was gonna miss out on a perfect opportunity to see Chris Hemsworth shirtless on the big screen.” I answer, surprised at how perfectly normal I sound for once.

“Ughhhh” he groans, bringing both hands to his face in mock exasperation and disgust. “Seriously? I thought you were better than that Ivey.. us men are not just a set of abs to be salivated over. We should be respected as people” he smiles smugly down at me. _He's so tall – at least a head taller than me – and it both intimidates me and turns me on._

“Well you deserve to hear things like that! That's what you get for almost backing out on me over text message.” I look up at him and hit his arm jokingly with my fist as he lets out a few loud laughs and grabs my arm in a gentle hold.

…...My left arm.

I wince involuntarily at the pressure placed on my newly administered cuts, and realize too late that he's seen my moment of pain. Lord knows he doesn't understand what exactly he's done, but I can see the concern at my odd reaction in the way he knits his brows together tightly and the corners of his lips turn down ever so slightly, hiding the deep dimples that were visible only moments before.

“Hey... you ok?” He asks, letting go of my arm and looking at me in a confused sort of way.

“Yeah! I'm fine.” I reply a little too quickly, causing him to slightly raise an eyebrow at my overly enthusiastic response. “Why do you ask?”

He looks down at my arm (thank God no blood is visible – at least not yet – through the fabric of my shirt), and back to my face, searching my eyes intently for truth. He can sense something's off – Heaven knows how, but he can sense it. I'm acting strangely, and my facade must be letting up little by little. I have to do my best to build it back up again; make it convincing.

“You're acting a tiny bit antsy... are you sure you're alright?” Harry asks me, sincerely wondering if something's the matter. How could I do something so dirty – lie so bluntly to a boy like this?

It doesn't matter how – I have to. And quick.

“Yeah. Everything's fine! I just... don't feel quite up to par today is all. Must be stress from school or something. You can't tell me you're not ready for the semester to end already?” I ramble, trying so hard to make each word believable.

“Oh, definitely. I'm pretty sure everyone could do without the homework for a while..” he answers. “...but I don't believe you.”

My blood freezes.

_Oh God, he definitely knows something's up. Does this guy have a sixth sense or something? Girls say they're fine all the time! Why in the world won't he believe that I'm fine on the occasion that it actually matters? The time that I actually have something to hide?_

I chuckle nervously, hoping he takes it as a sign of disbelief that he would ever think I didn't mean what I said. “What're you talking about 'you don't believe me'? I'm fine” I say gently, attempting a joking tone, but the words coming out slightly more broken than I intended.

“You heard me. I don't believe you.” I can swear that I hear a hint of suppressed anger in his tone, bubbling up from somewhere in his gut and making itself evident.

I nearly jump out of my skin when he grabs my left arm again, this time not so jokingly, but gentle enough to be far from hurting me – if only he didn't snag the cut on my wrist.

_Leave it to Harry to get the gold on the first go-round._

My eyes screw up slightly at the pain, still so foreign to me – and, God, he definitely noticed.

“There it is again” he chastises, bringing my arm out between the two of us, and refusing to relinquish the uncomfortable grip he has on my wounds.

“Harry, what are you....” I begin, but he cuts me off almost immediately.

“Ivey. What did you do?” he asks, voice a whispered and worried plea for honesty.

_He knows._

Despite the fact that I know he's onto me, I decide against my better judgment and decide to keep up with the lies.

“What do you mean what did I do? I didn't do anythi...” but again, he doesn't let me finish.

“Don't try and lie to me” he snaps, voice a concerned and hushed hiss. “I see them, Ivey.”

“W-What? What do you mean? What do you see?” I ask, unconvincingly oblivious to what exactly is playing out right now.

“I see the bandaids. You didn't put them up.” still holding my arm, he trails me behind him in a gentle yet firm grip to the bathroom.

_Oh God._

“And there's one other thing you didn't hide,” he says, and at this point my stomach is churning so hard to the point that I believe I'm about to be sick. _Jesus, he knows._

“This.”

The way he grabs the little piece of metal and thrusts it towards my face, half in disgust and half in silent sorrow, nearly causes me to lose control of the sobs I'm currently trying to choke back.

“I don't know what that is.” I lie, far from convincing, avoiding his gaze and the razor with a drop of blood still clinging to its blade before my eyes. The tears are welling up now, threatening to spill over at any moment...

and that's when I know - I'm going to lose it. I'm going to lose control in front of this beautiful human being; in front of Harry Edward Styles.

Then he does it.

He places my arm in front of the both of us. I try so hard to keep him from finding the evidence of my deeds, even if he already knows for a fact that the cuts are there; he just swats my other hand away gently, still cradling my left arm...

...and he rolls back my shirt sleeve.

 


	3. Red Handed

Red – a thin, red gash on my wrist was the first thing that Harry's eyes registered. Understanding that he now knew exactly what I'd done to myself made me feel nauseous – but seeing the metaphorical dots connect within his mind, and the palpable pain register in his eyes made me want to hurl.

He just looked so disappointed – so _freaking_ disappointed.

And sad; the sadness in his gaze was tangible, even though he wasn't crying- the way his eyes seemed to glaze over, no longer aware of the red, bloody mess before them; like he was internally asking the question 'why in the world would she do this to herself'...

...but couldn't manage to find the answer.

His reaction hurt me more than any blade; cut straight to my heart, sharper than any razor.

“ _My God,_ ” he whispered, barely audible if it weren't for the almost suffocating silence surrounding us at this point. Tears were already stinging my eyes, threatening to spill over and reveal to Harry just how damaged I truly was – but I couldn't let them fall just yet. I had to remain strong for now; make him think that this was the only wound I'd given myself.

Sick and twisted though it might sound, I possessed this terrifyingly false notion that only having one visible cut on my skin didn't matter; that any more than one would certainly prove my mental instability, but that a single cut could be seen as a fluke. A mistake. Something that I never meant to do, but that I turned to nonetheless in a time of desperation - when every other solution seemed like a dead end. That I had realized my utter mistake, and put an end to the self torment after one slice of a cold blade....

….but that's just it. I _hadn't_ stopped.

I _couldn't_ stop.

That evil voice had urged me to keep going.

Just another slice.

One more cut couldn't hurt.

Harry had been my only lifeline today – his knock on the bedroom door had kept me from...

from doing Heaven _knows_ what.

As if on cue, Harry seemed to snap out of his internal trance. He visibly shook his head a tiny bit, lifting his green irises to stare deeply into mine. There would be no more lying – this much was understood in the way his eyebrows dipped down to frame his eyes in a strangely gentle, yet serious glare.

“How many more are there.” _Cut to the chase why don't you?_

“There aren't. This is the only one.” _You think that's enough to get him off your back?_ “It... it w-was a mistake.” _Damn that quiver in my voice. Why are you so weak?_

“ **Damn it** -” His certain and unexpected outburst made me visibly jump. “-enough with the lies already!” with these words, he yanked up my sleeve the rest of my way, revealing the pale flesh up to my shoulder. I winced as the other three cuts further up my arm were agitated by the brush of the fabric and revealed – man, I'd really messed up, hadn't I?

The tears couldn't wait any longer.

So I did the exact opposite of what I had intended – and fell apart.

A single droplet fell from my eye – the first of many to come.

Soon, the tears wouldn't stop; my breath came out in desperate gasps, hitching every other second as I desperately sobbed in front of Harry – this perfect human being who was probably going to leave me like all the others before him. Especially after this display of weakness -

......after showing him just how completely wrecked and broken I was on the inside.

My weight gave out beneath me; my legs had been shaking before, but now they just simply could not take the pressure of standing anymore. I crumpled to my knees on the carpet, tears staining my face, unable to form words -

and Harry came with me.

Next thing I know, Harry was sat on the carpet in front of me, still holding the top of my arm in a caring hold. Aside from rolling up my sleeve with a little surprised force, he had been surprisingly gentle – almost _cradling_ my injured arm in his huge hands.

He turned my arm slightly – just enough for the other three cuts further up my limb to become fully visible – and that's when it happened.

A tear slid from his eye.

It was just one drop of salty water, but it spoke volumes; what was left of my heart crumbled at the sight.

This man – this unbelievably beautiful creature was crying because of me.He was _actually sad for me_ -

_Good God, He actually cared._

_Someone cared._

That's when he looked from my cuts up to my face.

His gaze was so intense – so green, so broken, so sad and questioning and defeated and patient at the same time – I didn't know how to respond.

Lucky for me, he took control of the words in this situation.

“ _Why, Ivey?_ ”

Such a loaded question. How was I supposed to answer that?

_I'm broken. I'm hurting – so much more than you could ever believe. I put up a front in the form of a happy, smiling face every day, when secretly I loathe myself and the life I've been placed in. I don't believe that anyone will ever love me – I've lost all hope of ever having my heart belong to a significant other - because everyone in the past has run away. I think I'm pathetic because I should be stronger than this, but can never seem to overcome the negativity that's bogged me down... and that same negativity is now holding me captive in its filthy grasp? It that what he wanted me to say?_

….but all that comes out is a choked

“I-it's... it's nothing, really.”

I'm just so flustered and horrified and surprised at this point that I pick myself up in a single beat, pushing myself from the ground with my other hand, and break free of his grasp. I turn my back to walk towards the bathroom.

_What was I hoping to accomplish by going in there again? I had no razor – I had no desire to hurt_ _myself any further – just to run away. I wanted to sit on the toilet seat behind my locked door and cry my eyes out until I, hopefully, disappeared into thin air and didn't have to deal with this situation anymore. I wasn't suicidal; just humiliated._

… _.But that was the last place I needed to be at the moment._

_and Harry knew it._

He stood up just as quickly as I had, and grabbed my arm – the right one this time, now being more cautious as to where he administered contact.

….but with no cuts under his fingertips this time, his grip was not a gentle one.

“ **LET. GO.** ” I stated firmly, despite the sobs that were still heaving their way from my throat.

“NO. NOT UNTIL YOU TELL ME WHAT IN **HELL** IS GOING ON HERE.” Harry countered with just as much intensity. He was full-on crying at this point, a tear falling here and there even though he still wasn't sobbing; his eyes held a furious yet gentle atmosphere – a striking, confusing, endearing and horrifying gaze all at the same time.

“I've already told you – IT'S NOTHING. **NOW LEAVE ME ALONE**.”

His hold only tightened on my arm. There was going to be no way out of this situation without confrontation, no matter how I looked at it.

“ _LET THE FUCK GO._ ” I winced as the pressure of his fingertips ever increased in my flesh as I tried to pull away - all in vain.

“IT **DAMN** SURE ISN'T _NOTHING_. NOW TELL ME WHAT THE **FUCK** IS BOTHERING YOU!” every time he cursed, I flinched a little, as if the words had physically wounded me in their own way.

…..but at this point, his voice leveled out to a far gentler tone, words cracking slightly under the weight of his emotion. Tears began to streak his face with more purpose than before as he slowly lost control, much like I had only moments before.

“...what made you do this to yourself?” with these words, he showed me the razor that was still held in his other hand. He shook it towards me slightly as if to make sure that I had registered what exactly he possessed – what exactly I had used to purposefully wound myself minutes before.

With every passing second, I grew more and more regretful of my actions... but there was no going back at this point. I had done the deed, and someone had found out.

Harry had found out.

There was no second chance.

I had to deal with the damage.

He was just standing there, looking at me; waiting for an answer that would never come from between my lips, but waiting for it all the same. That intense atmosphere remained within his eyes, and every time I'd attempt to break eye contact with him I'd only lift my eyes a few moments later to find that his concentration had not faltered in the slightest.

Tear tracks decorated his face, painting little rivers all the way down his cheeks. The tears hadn't stopped. He wasn't hiccuping and gasping for air like I was – like a dying fish – no, he was crying in a more dignified fashion than the emotionally wrecked woman in front of him.

But he was crying.

I would never be able to get used to seeing that boy cry.

_Bloody hell, why was he crying?_

I kept up the facade, broken as it might have been. We stood there for probably two whole minutes, just looking into each others' eyes, attempting to make sense of the situation at hand. The silence was far from awkward – on the contrary, it was so loaded with emotion that no words were needed.

Until they were, of course.

And that's when Harry spoke.

“ _God._.. why do you feel like you have to be so _strong_ all the time?”

I flinched a little at these words.

“It seems like you never want to let people know how you really feel – I mean, hell, if something's bothering you, why don't you just come on out and damn well say it?” he looked almost hurt at this point; hurt at the fact that I hadn't let him in on how exactly I'd been feeling this whole time.

“I didn't know... _Fuck_ , I just didn't **know**.” He sniffled a little, wiping his eyes and getting rid of the teary evidence.

At this, he scooted closer to me on the carpet, reached towards my shaking, sobbing frame -

.....and wiped a tear from my eye.

Of course, this display of affection only made me cry with more fervor, but it was the thought that counted.

And you know what? I think he knew exactly what he was doing.

Exactly what _needed to be done_.

Next thing I know, his arms were around me.

It wasn't romantic in any sense of the word; just comforting.

Pure, unbridled comfort.

Both of his arms wrapped around my back, while one of his giant hands came to cradle the back of my head and push it into his shoulder.

And he just let me sob.

He let me sit there and cry into his neck for God knows how long, soaking his flannel shirt in tears as he rubbed gentle circles into my back.

I knew I was being a baby - but I just couldn't find it within myself to care anymore. All the fight had drained out of me at this point, and his presence seemed to have an 'honest effect' on my mind.

He wasn't taking any bullshit, so I couldn't give him any.

He knew I was hurting...

and now I knew for a fact that he would be there to help me through the pain – no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

It's at this moment that I think I truly fell in love with Harry Styles.


	4. Only Human

“OK, love. Up we go.”

Harry's voice broke me out of the seemingly endless trance I'd been in; who knows how many minutes we had sat there, just the two of us, on my carpet. I was still swallowed beneath the weight of Harry's arms embracing me, and when I lifted my face from his shoulder a wet patch was evident where my tears had soaked their way into the fabric.

I was still hiccuping every now and again as a result of my incessant sobbing, a sharp intake of breath forcing its way into my lungs unbidden. I couldn't manage any words just yet, fearing that I would fall to pieces all over again if I dared open my mouth. Instead, I sufficed for a teary look in his direction, catching his eyes with my hazel ones.

“We need to get those cleaned up, you know..” Harry clarified, gesturing to my arm with a furtive glance of his eyes. I nodded in response as he pushed himself up to stand just above me.

He offered me his hand, and I eagerly took it with my own – the good one; the one that wasn't attached to an abused, bloody arm.

He heaved me to my feet with one strong pull, catching hold of my opposite shoulder when I threatened to bump into his chest on the way up.

“Steady there, love. You've been crying a while now; that's enough to make anyone's legs a little shaky.”

My cheeks must have turned a bright shade of red at that point, because Harry took my face in his hands and guided me to look straight into his eyes - now gently staring back at me, with hardly a trace of their former anger and surprise.

“That's nothing to be ashamed of, OK?” his words were so soft – raspy, in a soothing sort of way; almost as if he were trying to melt all of the uncertainty and former tension from the room with the velvet of his voice. “Crying is nothing to be ashamed of. We all do it – and you're hurting, Ivey. It's a perfectly normal response to pain – emotional and physical, got that? It's not a sign of weakness....” -

\- I opened my mouth to respond, but Harry cut me off -

“It's not. It is NOT a sign of weakness. Wasn't I bloody crying along with you? And _I_ wasn't being weak. Christ, it hurt _me_ to see you like that... like this. Emotions don't make you a weak person. They make you human.... and that's what we both are, isn't it?”

Tears were threatening to spill again after listening to his words, but with a few clandestine gulps and moment or two of biting my lip, I successfully held them back. Instead, I just hugged Harry around his waist in a silent declaration of 'thanks'; and to my utter joy, he hugged back.

It felt so right – long, brown curls tickling my shoulder as he rested his face in the crook of my neck. I could feel his contented, warm breath passing by my ear in puffs, and shivered involuntarily.

“Ok love, let's get you cleaned up. The last thing we need is for you to get an infection... and maybe we can even talk a little about what's got you so down recently. Would that be alright?” the way he looked me up and down, earnestly searching my face for any remaining trace of insecurity or fear, was almost enough to have me reduced to a puddle right there on my carpet. I managed a weak “yeah” and a slow nod of my head, brushing the back of my good hand under my nose and sniffling a bit with the remnants of the bitter tears that had plagued me only moments before.

Harry took me by the hand and guided me behind him into the bathroom, throwing the used and bloody razor (I'd forgotten about that evil piece of metal entirely at this point) in the toilet and flushing it – ensuring that I'd never use it again.

It was in that very moment – the split second that he turned around to get rid of the razor – that I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

That's when I saw it.

Above my right shoulder was a wet patch.

It seems that a few of Harry's own tears had seeped into my shirt as well. I hadn't heard his sobs – they'd been silent as death – but they had been there, nonetheless.

“'We're both human'”, I said aloud, thinking of his words from a few moments before.

“What was that, Ivey?” Harry responded. He had the first-aid kit from my medicine cabinet in one hand, readying and arranging the supplies he would need with the other, and placing them on the counter beside my sink.

“Nothing”, I lied, and just sat there with the ghost of a grin playing across my lips.

_That's right. We're both human – only human._

Maybe – even as damaged as I was – everything would be OK.

_Maybe I would get through this mess after all._

 


	5. The Influence of Alcohol

Antiseptic. The scent was sharp and pungent, and lingered heavily in the air. Lord knows Harry had been an emotional wreck throughout this entire process - granted, he still remained HALF the emotional wreck I was... nevertheless, his anxiety was evident.

Harry's uncertainty and confusion were obvious in the way his hands and fingers shook, one grasping my injured wrist between padded fingertips, under near too-gentle pressure, and the other wavering clumsily about with an alcohol-sodden cotton ball. He had wiped away most of the blood with a warm, wet rag a few minutes ago - and had acted just fine.

Now, however, he was scared. That much was certain.

Scared of hurting me further, or scared with the all too recent memory of what he had just encountered, I couldn't quite say. Either way, the tension in the room that had, only moments before, been drowning us both under its overwhelming pressure had now boiled down to nothing but the tremors running through Harry's arms

If there was a bright side to be found in all of this, I could at least say that the worst was behind me - sure, my parents would have to be let in on my little self-harm issue sooner or later; but until that terrifying point in time, at least someone _knew._ Harry knew all about my secret struggle, and was obviously more than willing to help me through the recovery process. We had sat on the carpet in my bedroom, arms locked around one another in a firm embrace for God knows _how_ long. Harry had held me through my wracking sobs, accepted and obliterated my humiliation, and was now attempting to help me clean up the hell of a mess I'd made this afternoon.

That leads us here; to my tiny bathroom, me sat on the toilet lid and Harry hovering menacingly above me.

He didn't mean to, I know it, but he made me nervous - the way his eyes darted from the cuts on my arm to my eyes every other second made me antsy, even when I knew he was only doing everything in his power to sweep up the damage I had caused. I should have been no less than grateful in that moment... and believe me, I was. In all actuality, the use of the term 'grateful' would only serve as an understatement to the overwhelming sense of unworthiness I felt at having someone care for me like this.

No, I did anything but deserve his comfort and attention – and yet, here he was, taking his dear sweet time to ensure that the fragments of my mottled and broken heart were pieced together again....

...however, I just couldn't seem to get it out of my mind how freaking _nervous_ the boy was. His uncertainty was palpable and radiated off of him in waves. It had been worse a few moments before – a minute ago, I had fully believed that he was going to high-tail it and run out the bedroom door without a backward glance in my direction. The thought of caring for me and tending to my wounds wasn't what scared him; no, he _wanted_ to help me. _That_ was obvious.

I could easily tell, however, that within the recesses of his mind some thought or memory was haunting him. The way his eyes glazed over, unfocused, as if the essence of his confident and bubbly personality was no longer there, gave proof to that much.

_But what in God's name was scaring him so much?_

He had calmed down somewhat at this point, even though his hands were still shaking as they began to carefully administer antiseptic ointment to my wounds... or, I should say that they _would_ have been administering antiseptic ointment to my wounds, but were currently not doing so because Harry's hand had, once again, frozen in place above my slashed wrist. Little droplets of alcohol rained from the cotton, splashing absentmindedly onto the counter, dotting my skin here and there.

“Harry. Edward. Styles.”

“Yeahuh... hm?” he glanced up at me as if he were seeing me for the first time this afternoon.

“I know I shouldn't really be making jokes at this point, given the current situation and all... but dear sweet Lord, if you don't start giving me some first-aid right this second, I might have to punch you in the face.” I punctuated this sentence with a wry little grin, still unable to manage a full smile; I had just mutilated my own flesh after all – and there was nothing funny or joyful to be found in that fact.

“Oh... right.” at this point, Harry seemed to forget whatever it was that was burdening him so terribly, and focused his attentions entirely upon me once again. “Sorry if I seem a little... out of it. I just – I don't want to _hurt_ you. You know?”

So maybe it was the thought of hurting me that bothered him after all - but even so, something else seemed to be hiding under the surface of his painfully fake-calm exterior – like he was putting up a facade. Everything just seemed so... _forced_.

Caring, but forced.

“It's OK... I hardly think I'm in the right place to tell you not to hurt me. I hurt _myself_ for Pete's sake....” my voice caught a little in my throat involuntarily, and I choked on a half-formed sob, barely managing to hold back a fresh wave of tears. Even though I succeeded in stopping the waterworks, Harry leaned forward and touched the side of my face with his free hand, thumb running up and down my jawline endearingly.

My heart nearly beat out of my chest, and I could swear he felt it pounding away in its cage of muscle and rib.

“Now... what did I tell you? _You're only human_. It's not good what you did to yourself, no, but we can deal with that later.. right now, let's just focus on getting you cleaned up, yeah?”

I nodded my head silently, never letting my eyes leave his. To anyone watching – and if it weren't taking place on my toilet seat – we would look like an ordinary couple sharing a romantic moment with one another. In many ways, I wished that were the case... but knew that this was no more than a display of friendship, and that it was enough. Harry was here, and he was supportive and loving and perfect despite the day's events – and that was far more than I could ever ask for.

_God, what did I ever do to deserve this boy?_

“Now, this might sting a little...” his eyes flickered from mine to my wrist again.

“Thanks Captain Obvious”, I giggled a little, unable to keep a straight face... out of embarrassment more than anything else. “I sure as hell don't expect it to feel good.. but, I mean, it won't hurt for long. And I need this. Just – God, Harry, just clean me up already!”

“Sorry”, he laughed a little in return, though the sound of it sounded forced and hollow – a puff of air with no joviality backing it up, saving the fake twinge of happiness he attempted to infuse within it. “it'll only take a minute. We'll have you patched up in no time, just.. tell me if I hurt you, alright?”

I nodded my silent promise to him that, yes, I would tell him if he hurt me, and next thing I know alcohol was seeping its burning way into the deep slash on my wrist.

I didn't bother to suppress the wince that came over my face, wrinkling my nose and causing my eyebrows to dip visibly in pain.

“Sorry, Ivey,” Harry mumbled, not looking up from the bloody task before him. He gripped my arm a little more firmly in his free hand, more than likely making sure I wouldn't be able to pull away in the off-chance I tried to. “I know it hurts, but it'll be over in a second, love.”

I just bit my lip and let him do his job, looking the other way after a moment when the sight of my red and bloodied arm began causing slight waves of nausea to rock my stomach. _I had done this horrible thing to myself._

It stung. Not gonna lie. Harry was gentle with his administrations, but it hurt like hell. With each swipe of his hand, the cotton ball passed over my sensitive and torn flesh, filling the gashes with clear, liquid fire. Just when I thought it was over, he moved up the battered limb to tend to the three smaller slices above my elbow.

After what seemed like an eternity, Harry tossed the now very-pink cotton ball in the trash; when he turned back around to face me, I saw that his long, chestnut-colored curls were framing a very serious and stone-cold face. His green eyes bored into mine with a scary type of intensity, seemingly contemplating whether or not he should reveal the secret something that was broiling within his mind... the same thought that had unsteadied his fingers and left him gaping into oblivion only moments before.

That was my guess, at least.

As it turns out, I had no idea how right I could be.

 


	6. When the Tables Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now... for Harry's side of the story. You'll find out a lot more about him in the next few chapters!

A tidal wave of emotion erupts from his lips in the form of one deep, ragged breath.

In through his nose, out through his mouth.

His green eyes close, then open again. They go out of focus, and he seems to look within himself once more, contemplating whether or not this is a good idea.

Whether or not he should say the words that so desperately long to come out.

Whether or not he should keep them safe, locked up tight within his soul, as they have been for so long.

Pupils dart back to the pair of anxious eyes before him - my eyes.

He makes his decision – there's no going back now.

He steps into the fire, fully expecting the burn of the flame.

“You're not the only one.”

It comes out so fast, words seeming to trip over one another in a mad scramble for release from the cage of perfect lips that once held them back.

“..what are you - “

“You're not the only one.” Harry repeats himself; it's a single sentence, meaningless to anyone else – but not to me. Not after today.

A sick and rumbling sensation begins churning up my gut; I feel like I'm about to vomit as I suddenly start to understand what exactly it is he's trying to tell me.

The weight of his words, and what they imply.

I also realize that I don't want to understand him; I want to remain ignorant, but the sudden onslaught of knowledge that has come from his mouth in the form of one, lonely sentence has stolen that ignorance from me.

He's breathing harshly now, trying desperately to hide it, but failing. He tries to fight his way through the crumbling remains of his poorly built facade, averting my gaze and moving once again to the first-aid kit resting on my bathroom cabinet. Shaking fingers fumble about in the tiny white, plastic box and wrap around four bandages, one bigger than the others, with a patch of gauze to accompany them. He hands them to me; I grab them with my good hand, still bewildered, as he snags a tube of Neosporin, unscrews the cap, and applies a greasy dollop to his forefinger.

“...Harry...” my words are drawn out and gentle, unsure and far from confident as they begin slipping out one by one. “...do you mean that...”

“Yes.” it's one short, aborted syllable. It leaves no room for debate or explanation, but Harry should know by now that I won't let him off the hook that easily – not after all he's done for me today.

He's hiding his face under his long, perfect curls, trying to look fully engrossed in the task before him...

...but I know better.

His finger lightly brushes over the torn skin of my arm, and the sudden contact sends an unwanted shiver up my spine – now is definitely not the time for my hormones to take over... but who the hell am I kidding? Refusing to acknowledge both the sexual and emotional tension in the room would be no less than ignorant. I can sense that the walls are coming down between us, and there's just no point in trying to keep them up anymore.

It's been less than an hour; such a short amount of time to spend together, and yet so much has been discovered about the both of us. I make a split second decision within my heart that if today the walls have chosen to tumble, then by all means, they should fall.

I've learned today that broken people don't have to pretend like they're whole – we all have little pieces of ourselves that are imperfect and 'unsightly'... but they don't make us any less beautiful. We all have our struggles, and to pretend otherwise would be foolish.

We're only human, as Harry so wisely told me.

...and I suddenly realize that it's time to teach Harry his own lesson.

With caring precision and a gentle pressure, he spreads the ointment over my deepest cut, covering it in a fine layer of Neosporin. I hiss a little through my teeth – the wound is still tender, and trying to pretend that I'm not affected would, again, be futile at this point. He's seen through one of my most desperate facades so far, and this is no different. He would know I was lying.

I let him finish his job on my arm before I take action, because having the constant responsibility of disinfecting my self-inflected wounds lingering over our heads unfinished, when so much more emotion is threatening to spill over any moment, doesn't seem very appealing to me.

The last bandage is gently smoothed over my skin, and Harry leans back with a huff.

“All better.”

“Harry, we need to talk.”

“No. We don't. I told you everything you need to know – you're not alone. You can get through this... _I'll help you_ get through it. My issues don't matter.”

“How can you even _say_ that?” my voice comes out louder than I intended, causing him to flinch a little at the sound. He's still not looking at me, and it breaks my heart. “Harry, I'm not mad at you. I'm _scared_. Are you trying to tell me that -”

“Don't make me say it.... please don't make me say it, Ivey.” it's little more than a raspy whisper, and I swear that I can see the beginning of a new tear twinkling in the corner of one averted eye.

Now, however, he's crying for a different reason entirely.

I don't want to say the words that come next, because I know that once they come out, there's no turning back. The truth will be brought to light and laid on the table, blatant and painful until it is over and dealt with.

It is this knowledge scares me to no end.

So much secret pain has been unearthed this afternoon – but it seems as though there will be much more to deal with before the day's end.

“You've cut too.”

* * *

His body reacts more violently to these words than at any other point this afternoon. He slumps on the stool in front of me, looking as small as Harry Styles can possibly look. One of his giant hands comes up to cover his mouth, as he hides his head in the other. It only takes a few moments before I hear the unmistakable sound of sobbing; the hitch and release of one breath, and then another.

And another.

And another.

Harry sits there in front of me, full-on crying. The last of his facade has been blown down and obliterated with three words, and I don't know whether or not I should be relieved that he's finally let go, or utterly heartbroken at his pained and fragile state.

I suppose it'd be impossible not to feel both.

“Harry, look at me.” I'm close to crying too at this point, holding back the tears for his sake. I've had my moment; I've shed my tears and been comforted in his embrace - and I know he'll be able to see the water beginning to pool in the corners of my eyes once he chooses to look up at me, but it can't be helped.

All I know is that I can't lose my cool entirely – not now.

He's been so strong for me this whole time, and now it's my turn to be strong for him.

He needs me.

I reach out towards his face with my freshly bandaged arm. He tries weakly to turn his head from my direction, still attempting to evade my eyes, running fingers through his hair desperately over and over again.

I can hear how broken he is, the way he's openly sobbing and hiccuping in front of me... he's trying to stop the tears from falling, desperately wiping them away with the back of his hand, only to have new ones take their place. It seems as though he still doesn't want me to see actual evidence of his brokenness, even though it's obvious. He doesn't want me to see him cry – not for himself, anyways.

But I won't have any of it.

I take both of my hands and grasp him firmly on both sides of his face, not caring if I touch tears or snot. This causes him to retaliate, and he involuntarily grabs both of my wrists; the hold is gentle as always, naught but an attempt to bat me away and get me out of his personal space, but even that grasp on my cut causes me to cry out weakly. It's just a sharp intake of breath and the ghost of a moan, but he picks up on it immediately. His watery eyes look directly into mine, and he finally allows me to face him.

It breaks my heart, the way tear tracks stain his skin, leading to the point of his chin and dripping down to splash on his jeans. They don't stop falling. He keeps trying to turn his head away and hide the blatant evidence of emotional turmoil raining from his eyes, but the attempts are weak, and my hold remains strong.

“Look at me.”

He gives up the fight and just cries, looking directly into my eyes. He's still grasping both of my wrists as my hands dig into the curls on either side of his face, finding purchase and refusing to let go until this whole situation is over and dealt with. With every wracking sob that wrenches it's way from his throat, he damn near _convulses_ asblasts of desperate, warm breath hit me square in the face. At any other time the intimacy of this moment and the proximity of our bodies would have me weak in the knees and at a loss for words... but at this time, my heart is pounding for a different reason entirely. Hormones have fled the situation, and naught remains but what must be done.

What must be fixed.

“Harry. Tell me right now.. have you cut before?” the question isn't meant to be imposing. I ask it as gently as possible, scared of breaking the boy down further than he already is at the moment, when all I want to do is build him back up again.

Back to the confident, happy Harry I've always known.

Even if it _had_ all been a facade hiding this broken and battered shell of a man from my unknowing eyes.

At this point, he understandably can't find it within himself to speak; the sobs are still desperate and wracking, and don't leave room for any words.

So instead of audibly answering my question, he looks down and drags one of my hands away from his face.

He releases both of my wrists from his grasp, and uses one trembling hand to pull up the hem of his shirt.

My eyes must give away the utter shock that I feel, because all he does is start crying harder, and bury his head in both hands.

All I can see are the scars.

 


	7. What You Don't Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More about Harry!

Pearly white strands of flesh, thin and delicate as threads of silver hair, littered the bronze skin in a web from just below his navel to the dip beneath his ribs. I'd never seen so many scars on a human being – barely there, yet massed together in such a tight manner that they were impossible to ignore. The shimmer of new flesh mesmerized and sickened me at the same time.

“How long?” two words - hardly more than a whisper, with a barely detained gag attached to the end of them.

“It's been about a year now.” he was regaining control of his breath at this point - only taking the opportunity to swipe his shirt sleeve across his swollen, green eyes every now and then. “Didn't think it'd get this out of hand though.. it's just that... you know, you think it's only gonna be one time.” - a sharp intake of breath, a sniffle, and a hand running through the front of those chestnut curls interrupted the flow of his thoughts at this point - “...you feel so sad. So defeated – you tell yourself you're only gonna let it happen one time – ONE TIME and then you'll stop. You just feel so depressed and down in the dumps that you've reached the point where talking to people and venting just doesn't cut it anymore... it seems like the only solution is that you have to take the negative emotions out on yourself. This one time, then everything will be OK. You trick yourself into the sick lie that you can regain control of your senses after you.. cut.” he spit out the word like venom from his mouth. “Or.. maybe that's just me.” a hint of a smirk, the pop of a dimple, both of which vanish almost instantaneously as he glances up at me once more.

I really wanted to say something in response to this sudden tirade – but, understandably, couldn't manage to formulate a sentence that did his confession justice. Luckily, the threat of uncomfortable and confused silence descending upon us was vanquished as the sound of his voice resonated throughout my room once again. He wasn't finished yet.

“But – honestly, it's so much more than that... cutting is. It's so freaking hard to get out of the habit once you start it – I had no idea what I was getting myself into. All I knew was that I was experiencing negative feelings, that they were becoming overwhelming, that they were defeating and crumpling and KILLING me and I needed to do something about them. I needed to help myself... and only God knows why exactly I thought this was the answer.” he gestured with one swift motion towards the area of his stomach, gaze changing from retrospective to disgusted in a matter of moments. “Ivey.. all I know is that after I made that first, tiny cut, I couldn't stop. The pain... I mean, it obviously hurt, but God... somehow - in some sick and twisted way - I began to enjoy it. The pain. I started to feel like I deserved the ache I was dishing out for myself, like I was giving myself a weird mixture of relief and rightful punishment for my failure at the same time. It got to the point where every night, after I had gotten in the shower and my mum expected me to stay in my room until I woke up the next morning, I would sit on the edge of my tub and cut. I'd think about it for a while every time – right before I cut, I would think of why exactly I was doing this to myself, and something would always spark inside of my mind telling me that maybe I shouldn't do this terrible thing to myself after all... but that spark would always be replaced with the negative thoughts of that day - the absolute hatred I had towards myself – and it would die away. Just like that.” Harry snapped his fingers here, and I jumped back a little. I had apparently lost track of time and place in the wake of this horrifyingly entrancing explanation.

“So yeah, I'd sit there and cut. It started out as one tiny scratch, and it scared me – but soon enough, I worked up the courage to begin adding more and more lines. It got to the point where I didn't even remember how many marks I made some nights... I'd just hop up from the side of the tub, wipe off the razor, mop up my cuts a little, and collapse on my bed after hiding the blade under the mattress. I'd just lie there, bleeding into the fabric of my sheets, until I woke up the next morning to new negative thoughts, put on a shirt, and walked out the door to face the day. Mum never expected a thing.”

At the end of this tirade, he took a very deep breath, his green eyes boring into my own in a silent plea for my input. His unwavering gaze made me a little nervous – it was as though he could see into my mind; as though he could see the thoughts turning like wheels behind my forehead as I connected the dots there.

“Harry.. I have a question for you. It's kind of personal though, and I know this has to be a touchy subject, so just let me know if - ”

“Fire away.” It was a gentle command that left no room for doubt.

“What.. what made you do it? What made you feel so low that you felt like you needed to turn to something like this? Like you needed to – hurt yourself to feel better?” I cringed internally as the words erupted from my mouth, unsure as to whether or not I actually wanted to hear the answer.

“I'll tell you – but I don't want the answer to disappoint you.”

Wow. That wasn't the response I was looking for. Why in the world would he think that his answer would disappoint me - the girl that had cut her own flesh only minutes before?

“Harry. You won't disappoint me. I promise you.” and I meant it.

“It's not like I had a huge reason behind being so sad – looking back on things now, it was actually sort of stupid that I reacted so negatively. The only thing wrong with me was a lack of self confidence – I didn't think I was good enough. I STILL don't think I'm good enough. I have these high standards that I set for myself, see... and it seems like I can never quite measure up to them. My hair is always a little too messy, my face is always a little off – a spot will pop up here or there on my forehead or chin, you know – or there's something wrong with my outfit... I can never seem to get myself quite the way I want. I can never be PERFECT, and I guess my flaws just took such a big toll on me... I looked down on myself so strongly, that I finally couldn't take it anymore and caved. But the thing that finally did it in for me... the one flaw that broke me down enough, and sent me to the edge of my tub to make that first cut... was that I messed up doing the one thing I love most.”

The answer clicked into place before the next sentence even left his lips – singing. Harry Edward Styles adores singing.

“I don't know if you remember that one day I was singing in front of everyone at school as clearly as I do, but I... I messed up pretty badly. It was like I got so nervous that I choked on the words I was singing... I couldn't seem to catch my breath, and almost passed out right there, in front of everyone we know. I don't think anyone noticed... I mean sure, they probably saw that I was a little nervous and shaky – but in my mind, I had screwed up so badly that I almost couldn't go on. Ivey, singing is my passion... I felt like if I failed at doing the one thing I love most, that my life was worth close to nothing. That's why I auditioned for X-Factor today... as a sort of redemption for the mistake I'd made earlier – a search for the confidence that had left me on that stage in front of all our friends and their families. I had to prove that I could do it... that I was worth more than what they saw that day at school. I've always wanted to be one of those people who don't care what other people think about them, but... but Ivey, I'm not one of those people. I'm just not. I really do care, and sometimes the thought of it all kills me.” he looked up at me again, exasperation and confusion written all over his face, and dripping from the corners of his perfect lips, parted in a mix of defeat and remembrance.

“But Harry, you said it yourself – you made it! On the X-Factor... they're letting you go on to boot camp! That means...”

“My encouragement can wait. I appreciate it, Ivey, and I know you're trying to make me feel better... but before all of that... I'd like to here your reason.”

Oh, God.

“You... you want to know why I... cut? Today?”

A silent nod was the only response I got from him. Not playing games anymore. I forgot.

Well, here goes nothing.

I open my mouth to speak -

\- and the truth finally begins to break free from my lips.


	8. The Truth Behind the Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to the title, this chapter is actually a very sweet and happy one.... *squee* just read it!! I loved writing this chapter more than any other one before it :3.... which is fitting, I suppose, since it's the ending ;)

“I've never been loved.”

An exasperated and disbelieving gasp leaves his lips as he looks around at God knows what, fiddling madly with his hands and obviously trying to take in exactly what it is that I've just confided in him. When Harry speaks, it isn't in a harsh or demeaning manner; rather, it's as if he can't quite believe or wrap his mind around the lie that I've etched into my own heart and soul over the course of tonight.

“Ivey... pardon my French, but what the ever-loving _hell_ are you -”

“Harry, please, just let me finish -”

“But you _have_ been loved... for Christ's sake, you _are_ loved. What the -”

“Harry!” I immediately cut off what's sure to become a pep-talk, and his perfect lips snap shut, unformed words and encouragements dying somewhere in his throat as his eyes weave between mine and the floor in a seemingly endless dance, waiting patiently for me to continue. “I'm talking about _romantic_ love – not about being loved by your friends and family - that's just platonic. When I say 'I've never been loved', I mean I've never... it's kind of embarrassing to say... I've never – you know – _held hands_ with anyone. I've never been on a date, or gazed into someone's eyes right before I kiss them for the first time. I'm just so freaking... _inexperienced_ , Harry. And I guess you can say tonight that I let that inexperience get the better of me. I... gave into my negative emotions, just like you said you did a year ago.”

“Ivey...”

“I know it's stupid; it's horrible that I've let something so trivial get the better of me – but there's just so much pressure, you know! From the media, from my friends... from every-freaking-body and thing around me! It seems like that's the only thing anyone ever talks about anymore is love, and sometimes it just makes me want to explode! I know I have it... I mean, I'd be a complete _idiot_ not to see that I'm loved; my family loves me – and I know that. But I hope that you also understand me when I say that there's a hole somewhere inside of me that's waiting to be filled, and that craves the _physical_ sort of love... shit, that sounds so cheesy, but it's freaking true! You don't know how it feels... to be twenty years old; to watch chick flicks with your friends on Saturday nights, or even a freaking _sci-fi movie_ for crying out loud where everybody and their brother is 'getting some action' every other night, sometimes from a total stranger. It's almost like romance has become an expected necessity, rather than something to look forward to and fervently treasure when it finally comes along... and as much as my heart is screaming at me that it can wait, that it'll eventually happen to me and that I should just let it come when it does... I don't know, I just feel so _pressured_ into finding it _right now._ There's a sick and twisted part of my soul that has forced me into believing that I should have found at least a piece of it in elementary or middle school, like everyone else seems to... and I feel like a complete failure knowing that I haven't by now. Everyone seems to be 'in' on this whole 'love' thing... but me - stupid, _stupid_ me – I'm an adult. And I've never even fucking _kissed_ anyone.”

Well, there's a blatant confession if ever I've given one; it seems like everything I've wanted to say for so long has finally managed to tumble it's way out of my mouth, and my body has a visible reaction to the loss; my shoulders slump forward, I bury my head in my hands, and even though the tears don't come, I know for a fact that if I had any left to waste that they would be falling by now.

Instead of feeling tears squeeze their way from my between my eyelids to make their winding way through the cracks in my fingers, however, two large and calloused hands caress the tops of my own; long fingers interlock with my shorter ones, holding them in a gentle squeeze as the jumble of digits is lowered away from my face to rest between mine and Harry's bodies. He's much closer to me than he was only moments before – facing me directly and gazing into my eyes as if nothing in the world could captivate his attention more than the girl sitting before him. It's not a romantic or lustful sort of closeness – rather, the intensity of his gaze seems to be saying that he's listening, and that nothing I'm admitting in secret is being tossed to the wind and swept out to sea; he's taking everything in, and he's here for me. And I'm more grateful for that than words can describe.

When Harry speaks again, it's not rushed; he's had time to think through the words he wants to say this time, so he chooses them accordingly; there is no brutality or anger, just an unadulterated sort of gentleness that pleads for me to listen.

“Ivey. You. Are. Loved. OK? _You are freaking loved._ What's done can't be undone... you've self harmed, so we're going to have to deal with that choice and make sure that something like this never happens again.”I flinch at his blunt words, and he notices at once. “I'm not saying these things to be mean - I'm saying them because I've _dealt_ with this sort of situation before. With myself. Now, I can't say that I've felt the exact same thing that you're feeling now... and I know that the circumstances surrounding my self-harm story aren't the same as yours... but the actions we turned to in order to supposedly 'solve' our problems are identical. And this?” - he gestures towards my wrist and arm in a gentle wave - “This is hard to overcome. It's not something you get over in twenty-four hours like a virus. It takes work; it takes a change of mind and a change of heart and a full 360 degree turn of your soul to get over something this serious.”

I make a sort of strangled, half-grunt of protest, and it erupts from my throat in order to argue his words - but he cuts me off at once, stubbornly continuing in his gentle tirade as if absolutely nothing could stop him at this point.

“It _is_ serious. I don't care what you say to argue that point, just know that it is, OK? Take it from somebody who knows.” Harry shoots a furtive glance down at his stomach, and I catch it at once, knowing exactly what he means. A mental image of white scars splayed out upon tan skin like a spider-web flickers through my mind, and I shudder, our hands still locked together in their own silent embrace; clinging to the life flowing between them, and that the other both gives freely and so desperately craves.

It is at this moment that I realize me and Harry – we're each others' life lines. Where once a simple friendship held us together, a shared and secret torment now binds us as one; to lose one is to lose the other, because our emotions are linked together so deeply at this point that we're standing upon each others' shoulders in a battle for life. We are each the strength of the other; the anchor in which we put our trust, and in which any judgment from here on out will be swept away like debris among the waves.

Harry's next words echo this fact perfectly.

“Cutting is serious business. But we're going to get through this together, love. Alright? It'd be my honor to help you through the recovery process. And...” he glances down; he swallows the lump that is – almost certainly – forming in his throat, because one the size of a mountain is currently lodged in mine; and he looks back up at me almost sheepishly, half as scared as before, but with a lingering trace of doubt that he really wants to let these next words fly. “...and, if it's not too much to ask... please help me in return. I think as long as we can count on each other for support, we can defeat these negative emotions. We can get rid of this – _thing_... this _demon_ that's held us both captive for so long, and that made us both eventually turn to something so terrible. I think I can count on you for that, can't I?”

I stare fervently into his green eyes, still tinged red with tears shed not so long ago, and nod. A silent vow is passed between us, and the silence lingering between our bodies and souls only serves to solidify that promise; a promise to be there for, and to understand, the other in a way that no one else in this world possibly can.

“You can count on me, Harry.”

“And you can count on me, love.”

Next thing I know we're hugging, and it's such a beautiful thing. You give hugs to your friends and family members all the time – little flippant things with hardly any meaning placed behind them save the purpose of a simple greeting. But this hug – this was different. It was real, and raw, and beautiful, and composed of arms wrapped tightly around necks, noses buried deep in the crinkles of shirts, and acceptance so deep that it seemed to swallow us so that we lost all track of time; all that remained for me in that room was curls, dimples, and a pair of lovely green eyes... but more than the physical, there remained a beautiful soul buried beneath that scarred exterior, a love as flawless as a breath from Heaven... Harry Styles. It's not within my power to know exactly what remained within this moment for Harry – but judging by the way the warmth of his very being seemed to permeate and weave its way into my soul, I'm judging that he must have felt these same types of beautiful things.

After a miniature yet entirely flawless eternity, my voice brings and end to the silence; I'm relived to hear that it's much calmer now, ringing through the air with a clarity and confidence that it had lost since the very moment Harry knocked on my bedroom door.

“So... Boot-camp, huh? Looks like somebody isn't as sucky as a singer as they originally thought they were.”

Harry's face is still buried into the crook of my neck, but I swear I can _feel_ a dimple pop, right next to my ear. As he pulls back, both of his hands still planted firmly on my shoulders, I couldn't be more happy to see that that unbelievably cheeky grin has returned once again.

“I guess you're right.. We'll have to see how it turns out, now won't we - and you sure as _hell_ better be there cheering me on.”

“You better believe I will be.”

“Good.”

“And just so you know.. you're gonna be famous one day. I can feel it.”

“That's a little bit of an extreme assumption wouldn't you say, Ivey?”

“Nah. Just watch. If your voice doesn't capture them immediately, then those dimples certainly will.” I reach up and pinch both of his cheeks in a playful gesture.

“ _Bloody hell_ ” his hands come up to grasp both of my wrists in a firm grasp, yanking my harassing fingers away from his cheeks and trying to hold back laughter all the while. I can't help but smile at his reaction – this playful moment such a welcome and stark contrast to the serious, somber atmosphere a moment ago. What starts out as a cloud of little giggles eventually turns into a full on fit of laughter, which then proves contagious and captures Harry within its hold.

Both of us double over and let it fly until we're crying for an entirely different reason.

And with that, the last of the initial tension simply dies away and dissolves into the atmosphere.

When we finally come up for breath, I can see his eyes sparkling with joyful tears, and it makes me so happy that my heart swells with the thrill of it; we may not be completely whole, but God knows that we're both better off than we were before.

Now, instead of braving our battles alone, we have each other to cling to; and even though I know that Harry had it right when he said that it'll be hard to get up and over this dip in the road... well, knowing that we now have someone to walk through the rough patches with, and who will help mop up our wounds when the going gets tough and we feel like we simply can't take another step.. that thought alone is more comforting than anything else.

Harry's voice breaks me out of my silent reverie.

“Ivey... if it's all the same to you... I'd like to make sure that you cross one thing off of your bucket-list tonight.”

And all of a sudden, Harry is much too close.

I've said it before, but this time I mean it.

This time is different.

His face is so close.

Oh God, why is he so close?

No way -

….and all of a sudden, his lips are on mine.

Perfect lips that meld with mine like they were made for each other; sparks fly, and my heart does a triple-flip so that I have no doubt it's trying to fly straight up my throat, down the hallway, out the door, and down the lamp-lit street with the sheer perfection of it all. One giant hand comes to rest against the side of my face, and caresses me there as if I'm a delicate piece of paper that will wilt and melt away at the slightest of touches; it's all too perfect, and I feel chestnut curls dancing their ticklish way along my jawbone as our souls seem to connect there beneath our noses, where feelings I've never known are being born between the two of us.

When Harry pulls away, it's all too soon. He comes up, and when he opens his eyes to gaze into mine once more, his expression is unreadable; I don't know if it's love, lust, or a jumbled up mixture of the two – but whatever it is, I would be content if he looked at me that way forever.

If time just sped on without the two of us, and all that remained was the beautiful boy before me – somewhat broken, yes, but beautiful nonetheless – then that would be just perfect.

“Harry, what was -”

“Well now,” - his voice is barely a whisper, raspy as a result of his administrations only a moment before, and it's so hot that I think it entirely possible I might melt right then and there - “it looks like you can't say you've never 'even fucking been kissed' anymore.. can you, love?”

“No... looks like I can't, can I?”

“And, just for the record – I enjoyed every second of it... much more than I probably should have, if we're being honest.”

I slap his arm playfully, and he recoils, giving me an over-exaggerated gasp as he rubs the assaulted flesh soothingly.

“Well, I'm only telling the truth! You don't want me to lie and say that I _hated_ it, do you?”

“What if I do?”

“Well, it'd be a bold faced lie, for one... and second of all, it'd be quite a shame; I was really hoping we could do quite a lot more of that sort of thing in the future.”

Even though I'm sure that I've blushed so hard at this point that my complexion more closely resembles that of a cherry tomato than actual flesh, I manage to respond to his unexpected admission with only the slightest of quivers in my voice.

“I think... I think I might be OK with that, actually.”

I didn't think it humanly possible, but that beautiful smile gets a few fractions bigger. I swear - if looks could kill.

“Perfect.” his gravelly Cheshire accent is accentuated in that one syllable, and that cheeky grin is still plastered to his face, plain as day, as he leans forward to give me another, closed-mouth peck on the lips. I doubt that I'll ever get used to the absolute somersault my gut performs whenever this man touches me.

But I also know that I can deal with that fact.

And somewhere, deep in my soul, I know that we're both going to be OK.

Our scars, new and old, will heal with the aid of the other, even if it takes time; even if we fall back a step or two now and then, and have to break out the first-aid kit on a few bad nights... though Heaven knows I hope that never happens.

And even if the physical blemishes choose to remain in the form of pearly-white scars for all eternity...

that'll be just fine.

We accept each other for who we are – scars, baggage, and all – and we have all the time in the world. And time is a beautiful thing, so long as it is to be spent in the company of beautiful souls.

I am Harry's anchor, and he is mine; where his confidence once wavered, I hope to be able to build him up, and to give him the encouragement that he so desperately needs.

And as for me....

….if I professed to have never found love before...

….well, now I had.

Platonic and romantic fused together in a perfect symphony.

And his name is Harry Edward Styles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone that's stuck with me throughout this whole ordeal of a story, and for the encouragement you give me by reading and reviewing/commenting! You'll never know how much it means to me as a writer to see that people have actually taken the time to tell me what they think of my work... whether it be praise or constructive criticism, your words really mean the world to me, and give me the encouragement I need to keep going as an aspiring author.   
> Aside from the cheesy stuff, though....
> 
> ....IT'S OVER!!! Before today, I wasn't quite sure how I was going to end this whole thing... but the unexpected happened, and I actually got my first kiss ever yesterday (I'm 20 years old... just like Ivey. Ironic, huh?), and since the intense feeling and emotion of it all was burned into my brain, I used the sudden inspiration to write the grand finale for my fanfiction! xD haha but seriously, I'm more happy with the ending than I ever thought I could be. It's just so happy and fluffy - and not to mention a much welcomed change in tone from the constant angst that's been plaguing this story from the very beginning. Yay for happy endings!:D I hope you guys enjoyed reading this fanfic as much as I enjoyed writing it... I love you guys! I hope it encouraged you to find happiness, and left you with the message that everything works out in the end.. that even the darkest of times will come to a close, and that there's a light on the horizon, even if it's not visible at the moment. Your happy ending is coming! Don't worry, don't give up, and know that someone loves you!


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